Skirmish: A House War Novel (80 page)

His gaze was sharp enough to cut, and not lightly. But he glanced at Sigurne before he spoke. “It is too much of a risk,” he said, his gaze brushing Lady Sarcen as if she were poison.

“It is,” Jewel countered. “But the worst possible threat they can pose is there.”

“Is this vision?”

“No. Instinct.”

His smile was, like his gaze, quite sharp. “Very well.” He turned to Lady Sarcen. “Lead us
quickly
.”

For something that had sounded like capitulation, it wasn’t impressive. But Lady Sarcen was now a shade of gray that highlighted the powders and colors she’d donned in a very unflattering way. She looked truly afraid, although she was a patrician; she did not deign to give voice to that fear. Jewel wondered, as Lady Sarcen took the lead, what Duvari’s instinct must be like, for the Lady moved far more quickly—far more certainly—than Jewel would have in her position.

Even had she been guilty, she would have delayed.

But Lady Sarcen led them, in quick turns, up the terrace. She didn’t
approach the main house; instead she jogged to the left. Toward, Jewel realized, a familiar fountain.

“I swear to you,” Lady Sarcen finally said, struggling for breath, “that the gentlemen in question only had the desire to see the statuary and the fountain; it is famous among those who study the works of the Makers, and they are not significant enough to garner the invitation to view it, although they have petitioned House Terafin and the Order of Knowledge, both.”

“They are not here now,” Duvari told her. His voice was cool as he approached the statuary.

“Duvari,
hold
,” Jewel said; he froze almost in mid-step, pivoting to meet her gaze. “Don’t touch the water. Sigurne?”

The guildmaster nodded, lifting her hands. “Be prepared, Lord of the Compact. Lady Sarcen, you may return to your seat. But if you seek not to disgrace yourself, you will do so quickly.” As if to underline her words, the third chime sounded for a second time. Lady Sarcen did not need to be told twice; she retreated, gathering shreds of dignity around her as she went. Jewel had no doubt that when she arrived, she would be—or appear—entirely unruffled.

“She is correct, Duvari. There is an enchantment upon this water—”

Duvari turned to Torvan. “Go,” he told the Captain of the Chosen. “Tell Arundel he is to take the Kings on the secondary route.”

Torvan looked to Jewel; Jewel nodded. Neither gesture was lost upon Duvari, but neither soured his mood; it wouldn’t have been possible.

“The nature of the enchantment?” he demanded of the mage.

Sigurne appeared not to hear him, and Jewel thought it no act; the mage was bent in focused concentration, her eyes unblinking, her hands raised but almost immobile. She spoke three words—three words that sounded like thunder encased in syllables. Jewel couldn’t have repeated them, even if she wanted to.

The water began to rise.

4th of Henden, 427 A.A.
Avantari, Averalaan Aramarelas

Devon, trained to magic, weapon, poison, and subterfuge, was nonetheless not trained for this. The magi who could comfortably travel from one
location to another—instantly, and not at a more leisurely pace—were few indeed, and all of them possessed both power and rank. They could not easily be seconded to Duvari, and Duvari made absolutely certain that they could be seconded with ease to
no one
else. His
Astari
therefore lacked the benefit of experience with this mode of travel. Devon, who had survived the training the Lord of the Compact considered utterly essential, was now grateful for this one mercy.

The Terafin manse, with its fine and very crowded grounds, had been beneath his feet; the young woman to whom he intended to pledge his allegiance in the near future had been standing, grim-faced and determined, to his side. Angel, hair rising like a white spire above his otherwise ordinary face, stood to her right, and at her back, shadowing her, Arann, Torvan, and Arrendas—the men who would form the backbone of her Chosen should she survive her attempt to control House Terafin.

She had given her orders—terse, rough orders—and her domicis, a man Devon had never trusted and would never like, had relented with barely acceptable grace, given his role and station. He had offered hands to Devon and Celleriant, and Devon had instantly clasped what was offered. He understood what was at risk.

He had had no idea what to expect. But the grounds and the people that occupied them melted away below his feet—literally. The earth gave beneath him, the colors of grass and stone turned, in an instant to something only an insane painter might consider representative of either. He had fallen an arm’s length—and he could measure the arm; it was Avandar Gallais’. The domicis held the whole of Devon’s weight while the sky and the horizon and the manse in the distance blurred into a running stream of almost repulsive color that flowed around him. Around them all.

Avandar did his dignity the grace of maintaining his steely silence. The moving vortex of color began to shift. Had he been any other man, Devon would have closed his eyes; he was not; he watched. Here and there streams and trails of color, trailing smudges as if they were slugs, began to separate, pulling themselves toward the periphery of Devon’s vision; as they did, the colors began to spin and move. At their center, three men stood; at their edges, spinning faster and faster, color began to adhere.

It adhered in a totally different shape and tone, and when it was done with its motion and movement, when Devon’s eyes had adjusted to the sudden snap of stillness and solidity, he found himself standing in a familiar
hall in
Avantari
. It was the hall that led to Patris Larkasir’s office—and the offices, therefore, of the Royal Trade Commission.

“Why here?” Devon asked, frowning as he forced his vision and his legs to be steady.

“It is the area of the Palace with which I am most familiar. Were Jewel to be where your Princes now are, I would not be similarly constrained; she is not. We had best hope that Sigurne sent word.”

Celleriant drew his sword. He drew it from air, not sheath, and its edge glowed a deep, a compelling, blue. Devon realized it was a blue that belonged in the maelstrom that they had just traversed. “Viandaran?”

“I will not expend the effort to arm myself further,” was Avandar’s cool reply. “We have already earned the ire of the Kings’ Swords, whether it concerns you or not.”

“It does not; is it of concern to my Lord?”

“It is. Or it will be. The men here will take no orders from you or me; do not seek to give them. Kill them at your peril,” he added softly, as if it were necessary. The pale, long-haired man shrugged; it was all of his reply. If the passage from Terafin to
Avantari
had disturbed him at all, it didn’t show; Devon suspected it had barely registered.

He began to jog—quickly—down the hall and away from the familiar environs of his office and its identity. He shrugged himself out of his jacket, which was confining; he also discarded the shirt because of its cuffs and its collar. Avandar Gallais had the singular advantage of the robes of the guildhall; they did not encumber him as he fell into easy stride at Devon’s side. Celleriant wore armor; his armor didn’t change shape or texture. But it caught light that didn’t fall, in a way that no other clothing did.

At their back, Devon felt a cool, gentle breeze. It lifted Celleriant’s hair, and strands of platinum streamed across his winter-white cheeks. His eyes were glinting like steel caught in light; he was striking, almost beautiful—but cold. Devon shook himself. Although he prided himself on the ability to notice almost everything in any given environs, this skirted the edge of useless information.

“The wind—” he began.

“It is not—yet—mine,” Celleriant replied, gazing ahead through the walls as if he already knew who now invoked it. “How far away are your Princes?”

Too damn far. Devon estimated distance as he began to run. Sigurne
must have informed the magi—and the Swords—of the gravity of the situation; they were unhampered, and unquestioned, in their run through the halls, and the only people they glimpsed were the servants who, by duty, were meant to be visible. The Swords had been entirely withdrawn.

Devon knew where they could be found, and he felt a moment’s relief.

It was broken almost instantly by the sound of cracking rock; the ground beneath his feet shuddered and stilled.

“She was not wrong,” Celleriant said in a soft, soft voice. “There is power here.”

The doors that separated the wing in which the Princes held their modest Court were open; they were still attached to their hinges, but they were no longer guarded. From the open door, the halls could be seen, and in those halls, for the first time, the din of fighting was audible: men’s voices raised in both command and alarm, steel being drawn—but not wielded, Devon thought—not against similar steel.

He paused briefly—very briefly—by the ornate brass sconce just inside the doors, and he spoke one sharp word. The noise in the hall grew clearer, sharper; the orders were now intelligible. The gold engraving that traced the height of the walls and the trim nearest the floor began to glow, even to Devon’s eyes; they were orange, now. He frowned as he watched the colors shift and change.

Avandar said, “What color should it be, ATerafin?”

Devon did not reply, not with words, but he reached into the sash beneath his shirt and he drew two daggers—daggers that were unwieldy, they were so unbalanced. They were ornate and ceremonial—but the ceremonies of the gods had always served many purposes. He offered one to Avandar, who glanced at it and raised a brow; he did not take it.

“I cannot be held responsible for your fate once we enter that hall.”

“You cannot be held responsible for it regardless,” was the domicis’ cool reply. His face was shorn of expression; Devon thought he might even be offended. It eased him.

“You can, as I’ve said, be held responsible for any deaths you cause here.” He spoke to Lord Celleriant. Lord Celleriant did not appear to hear a word. This annoyed, but in its way, it was comforting.

Celleriant gestured sharply; light seemed to come to his hands and glove them, glittering like shards of broken glass beneath a lamp that was held askew. He spoke a single word—a word that Devon could not repeat.
His sword caught the same light, and as he raised his left arm, a shield formed across it. Devon didn’t even spare a glance at the wards of warning that now lit the halls. They were there to indicate magic and its possible use in
Avantari
, and only those trained to them might understand the information they conveyed, if they knew how to invoke them at all.

But this magic, he knew, would tell him nothing of use for the conflict to follow, and what information the wards now contained, the magi would dissect without pause until Duvari was satisfied with their answers.

Lord Celleriant entered the halls, and with him, a wind so strong Devon felt its tug as he followed. Avandar followed as well, unarmed and unarmored, his eyes narrowed as he scanned the empty halls. They did not remain empty for long; one turn, and the first of the bodies could be seen.

There were three. One, Devon could not identify at all; the face and the chest had been shredded beyond recognition. From size, he thought it male, and a glance at the shape of the hands confirmed this. It confirmed, as well, one other suspicion: the left hand was callused but clean, the nails short; the right hand was scorched and blistered, the ring finger charred to broken bone. The second corpse was similarly mutilated, its hands smaller but no less callused, the right hand burned in the same way. The third corpse, however, belonged to one of the senior staff servants, one who both lived and worked within
Avantari
. She was—had been—a woman of middling years, and her neck had been cleanly—quickly—broken; there was very little sign of struggle.

He rose. The din of fighting, magically amplified, carried the sounds of orders; he knew the stretched and thin veneer of command that asserted itself when the world had gone momentarily insane. Not fear, but close enough. He didn’t insert his voice into that mix; the orders told him what he needed to know.

“The Princes are not—yet—dead,” he told his companions.

“Viandaran, there are two.”

Avandar nodded. “Do you recognize their voices?”

“I recognize one. You?”

“I will deal with the other.”

Celleriant bowed. Devon stared at them for a long moment, but did not speak; Celleriant once again took the lead, and this time, the bodies that lay across the floors of the halls stopped no one, not even Devon. But as he ran, he wondered if Jewel had even a glimmer of understanding of
what, exactly, Lord Celleriant was; she had claimed his service, and he had claimed to offer it—but did the earthquake or the tidal wave offer service, and if they did, could it
ever
be contained?

4th of Henden, 427 A.A.
Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas

There wasn’t—there couldn’t be—that much damn water in a fount this small. Not if it were natural.

Duvari said a
nothing
that was as cold and silent as a killing frost. Angel drew closer to Jewel, but not for comfort or protection—not his own, at any rate. He was waiting when the rain began to fall.

Rain was wet. In and of itself, this wasn’t a significant fact—but the magi had labored for hours to erect a tangible barrier that would protect the guests of these funeral rites from its fall. Yet it fell. Jewel glanced up at the grim, gray-green skies, as lightning pierced their awful color. A cold Henden wind blew in its wake. “Sigurne?” she whispered, watching the wall of water as it continued to lift itself from the basin in which it surrounded the statuary.

The guildmaster did not reply.

She had no need; the rain that had begun its unexpected intrusion now flew at the behest of a wind that appeared to touch little else: the water gathered in beads, and joined what had once merely decorated a fountain.

Jewel had seen the rivers rise from their beds in the distant South; she knew what the water could do. But there were no drummers, no demons—that she could see—nothing that controlled what was now clearly under someone’s control. Without those, she had no idea at all how to end it.